A Modern Hero. Bonaparte and the Culture of Heroism Patrice Gueniffey EHESS

A Modern Hero. Bonaparte and the Culture of Heroism
Patrice Gueniffey
EHESS
Texte provisoire: ne pas citer
"The sublime simplicity of a republican hero": the figure of Bonaparte as
hero spreads after the battle of Arcola, in November 1796, as painted later by
the famous painter Antoine-Jean Gros.
Bonaparte, 27 years old at the time, is represented on the bridge of Arcola,
leading his troops during the supposedly victorious assault on Austrian
positions. In fact, the assault was not successful; besides, Bonaparte fell down
in a small river by the side of the road and was rescued by his brother Louis.
A brief summary: the First Italian Campaign began in the spring of 1796,
and was followed by a series of extraordinary victories in North Italy, from
Torino to Milan. Piedmont and Lombardy are conquered by the month of May.
Then, from July to the end of the year, Austrian armies are trying, four times,
to come back, but they fail each and every time. The battle of Arcole occurs
during Austria’s third attempt to change the military situation. The fourth such
attempt, in January 1797, will be the last one. After being defeated at Rivoli (15
January 1797), the Austrians are reduced to capitulation. The war in Italy is
over.
Come back now to the representation of Bonaparte after Arcola.
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The battle of Arcola did not invent the glory of Bonaparte: this kept
growing since the battle of Lodi, in May 1796. Since that victory, Bonaparte
was everywhere, in newspapers, in poems, in songs, on stage (actors
interrupted their own performance to announce Bonaparte’s new victories) and
everywhere one could buy paintings, medals, statues: and not only in France,
but also in Italy, in Germany and, in fact, everywhere across Europe.
A quote of Germaine de Staël could help us to understand the significance
of this phenomenon:
“It was the first time since the beginning of the Revolution that everybody
talked about one man, and one alone, this man who was going to put himself
in the place of all, grab fame for himself, and make mankind anonymous.”
Scholars are very cautious about this phenomenon, and often they
suspect it was only the result of propaganda: the figure of young Bonaparte as
Hero? Simply a myth, a lie, a deliberate invention. Napoleon’s legend? The work
of Napoleon himself: “His legend”, says a famous historian of Napoleon era,
Jean Tulard, “he has made it himself. His genius was to understand, one of the
first to do so, the importance of propaganda in modern times.”
Even if we agree with this assertion, we must add that Bonaparte was not
the only author of his own legend: the French government at that time, the
Directory, was certainly responsible for part of it. On the one hand, Bonaparte
did nothing to stop the growth of the legend, but, on the other hand, the
Directory contributed to it by celebrating all victories and by applauding
Bonaparte as a genius and a savior. In fact, the Directory had serious reasons
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to celebrate Bonaparte’s victories: while they feared a military putsch, military
victories were the only good news the Directors could give to the French people.
Thus, the government was forced to celebrate the army and its chiefs,
especially Bonaparte, just in hopes to be able to continue ruling France for a
while, until the army would seize power. But political interest was not the only
motivation of the Directors’ rather compliant attitude towards Bonaparte. They
were really excited, just like the public was, by so many victories in so few
months. Carnot, one of the members of the Directory, was not lying when he
was referring to Bonaparte, in his Letters, as: “the Hero of all French people”,
or “the greatest captain in history”, or “the benefactor and legislator of a free
people”… No other chief of the republican army had won so often and so
brilliantly.
This being said, Bonaparte was certainly very adept at producing his own
publicity.
One could say he had understood very well Machiavelli’s lesson: since the
prince is judged on appearance and not on his true nature, he has to be a
simulator and dissimulator in order to reign over people; he has to give a
positive public image of himself.
Second, one could say that Bonaparte well understood the importance of
public opinion in modern societies. He especially grasped the fact that since
the Revolution, the superiority of birth, of origins, of blood, had been replaced
by the superiority of talent, as recognized by the judgment of the public
opinion.
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The question was not, for Bonaparte, to gain a legitimacy he could oppose
to the government’s own legitimacy for having, at least, taken the power (it was
not the time was for such a move); the question was to gain, with the support
of the public opinion, a legitimacy that would render him free and independent
with regard to the orders and instructions of the French government: he just
wanted, at this time, to act as he wished in Italy, that is: not only as a military
commander, but as a foreign policy chief as well. He wanted to be sovereign in
Italy.
For this, he had to dazzle in order to be free, liberated from any
submission to the government’s instructions.
So, it is true: there is propaganda in the genesis of the figure of Bonaparte
as a Hero: proclamations, newspapers, paintings, poems, that all describe him
as a “general-citizen”, who prefers peace and cultivates the sciences but makes
war if necessary, and is as able to make war as he is to govern, or to write
constitutions, or to discuss astronomy and physics with scientists. A complete
man, the best, the first, in all activities: war, government, the arts and the
sciences.
This being established, we need to clarify one more point: we need to be
careful not to exaggerate the efficiency of propaganda.
Propaganda is efficient only if its recipients consent to it. Propaganda does
not have the power to rule people’s minds, even in the most authoritarian
regimes. There, if people remain silent and obey, it is less because of the
efficiency of the propaganda than because of the actions of the police. Neither
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the French government nor its police had, in 1796, the capacity to impose
silence to the population, and Bonaparte was not, yet, powerful enough to be
able to force the French people to believe he is a Genius and a Hero. We must
conclude that if it was propaganda, it was the kind of propaganda that was
responding to the expectations of the public opinion.
We can’t forget either that the victories of the French army in Italy were
really extraordinary. For many people, it was like a sort of miracle, some
unnatural thing, at least something unknown since the Ancient times.
Everyone compared Bonaparte’s victories with the victories of Ancient Roman
armies. The enemies of Bonaparte themselves admitted there was something
special in his story.
True, his epic exploits were further enhanced by the brilliant style of the
reports, bulletins, and proclamations.
These reports, though, were not as deceitful as we imagine.
Nothing more true, indeed, than the report he sends to the government
just after the battle of Arcola.
Bonaparte hides nothing, neither the failure of the troops, nor the bravery
of his officers.
He does not misrepresent the reality, he magnifies it.
His style is that of a writer, not of a military leader. He conveys a sweeping
story of fatigue, courage, cowardice, surprise, sacrifice, suffering and death in
the midst of the swamps of Arcola.
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As told by Bonaparte, war is no longer a mathematical operation, but a
passionate drama, with horror and greatness, inhumanity and virtue. It was
another reason why this so-called “propaganda” was so efficient: its style was
in accordance with the sensibilities of that time.
Antoine-Jean Gros’ Bonaparte au pont d’Arcole is the best pictorial
expression of the figure of the Bonaparte-Hero. Gros, on the probable
indications of his model, took several liberties with the truth since, while
simply episodic, the appearance of Bonaparte on the bridge becomes the whole
battle in the painting. Moreover, the posture of Bonaparte—sword drawn as if
he is charging, hair and flag waving in the wind, glancing in his rear—recalls
another image: that of a Bonaparte leading his army victoriously across the
bridge, even though, in reality, he did not succeed in victoriously crossing the
bridge. But this is hardly the most important fact. Bonaparte fills up the
whole frame; neither the field of battle is seen—if it is not in the background,
and then the sky is obscured by smoke—nor the Arcole Bridge, nor any soldier
of the two armies. The painting does not represent a heroic scene as the
Revolution had already inspired; it sets the stage for the hero himself, and only
him.
The Enlightenment had revived the basis for the cult of great men.
Kings, saints, conquerors; too many false idols, they said, were offered by the
powerful for the adulation of the masses. The enlightened century thus
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clarified the preference for men made famous by their discoveries or benevolent
actions on behalf of the happiness and progress of civilization.
Gros’ work, novel in its composition and spirit, registers itself under the
extension of a heroic culture developed, somewhat in spite of itself, by the
Revolution.
But while redefining titles, forms, and objects of celebration, the
Enlightenment philosophes had not contested the principle of the cult of great
men. They considered, first of all, that men had need to be able to admire;
next, that to celebrate great men as models could help the weak among us to
become more courageous and more virtuous; finally, they thought that the
celebration of great men would lose all of its danger in modern societies: in
effect, the public opinion would exercise over it a sort of sovereign power. The
praises addressed to great men would be, from that time on, granted by the
free suffrage of the citizens and thus consecrate the ultimate power of the
public opinion. An example was often cited: the triumphal return of Voltaire
and Rousseau to Paris in 1778, for whom the Parisians organized a royaltyworthy entry, complete with huge procession who accompanied them to their
residences.
However, as the century progressed, doubts began to arise: could a
society based on equal rights pretend to celebrate great men without creating
ominous distinctions between its citizens? Should society not award its
tributes to more authentic forms of grandeur? The deeds of the virtuous
citizen, those of the good father of the family, are they not worthy of the
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greatest epics? The simple performance of duty, is that not as worthy of
respect as the most dazzling glory? Hence, one reads in an Essai sur les éloges
from this time period:
Athens erected an altar to an unknown god; we could erect on the earth
a statue with this inscription: to virtuous men that we do not know.
Ignored during life, forgotten after death, the less they seek renown, the
greater they become.
In 1784, it is the “just citizen,” the modest hero, anonymous, even
obscure, that Bernardin de Saint-Pierre placed at the center of his “Élysée,” a
lush pantheon dotted with statues, where he is surrounded by equally
anonymous mothers of families and, farther, much farther, by the circle of
illustrious defenders of the homeland, of men of letters and inventers. Not only
does Bernadin contest the traditional criteria of grandeur: he also rejects the
inequality and the separation that grandeur introduces among men. The true
grandeur, he would say, does not separate men, it brings them together, it
makes them equal, since it finds itself in each of them.
Down, therefore, with the great man of the classical age, of the century of Louis
the fourteenth, who uncovered exceptional talents thanks to extraordinary
circumstances and whom an infinite distance separated from his
contemporaries. To this greatness that set individuals apart, Bernardin de
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Saint-Pierre opposed another sort of greatness which brings them together,
replacing in this way the heroism rooted in exceptional qualities with a heroism
without qualities and perfectly ordinary.
The French Revolution was at first on Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s side: The
Revolution dreamed of inaugurating a society of equal citizens who, without
being perfectly virtuous, would be so enough to subdue their own private
interests. If France, regenerated by the Revolution, was to pay homage to a
great man, it would have to be to the very people, since the Revolution was the
work of this collective being, supposedly endowed with feelings, reason, and
will power. The historian Jules Michelet, who knew the Revolution ‘from the
inside’ so to speak, so profoundly was he imbued with its spirit and ideals,
was the most profound of those who, from Joseph de Maistre to Karl Marx,
declared that the French Revolution was a great age without great men.
The revolutionaries themselves thought the same way. For a long time, they
made every effort to bring into reality the idea of a collective hero, perfectly
anonymous. They came as close as possible to Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s
dream during the Festival of the Supreme Being, celebrated in Paris on 8 June
1794: the organizers took care to avoid any hint to the discords of the
Revolution the better to display the spectacle of a liberated and reconciled
society, where greatness is everywhere precisely because it is nowhere; they
banished from memory the busts of the Philosophes, of the heroes of Antiquity,
and those of the martyrs of the Revolution, all of them exhibited until then in
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civil ceremonies; instead, they pulled out of anonymity two young soldiers of 13
and 14 years of age, Viala and Bara, fallen in combat, and called on to become
the almost ordinary heroes of a Republic without heroes.
However, giving to the regenerated France two heroes to admire and imitate,
amounted to admitting that Bernardin’s dream would remain a utopia; it
amounted to admitting that virtue, far from being an innate quality, requires
from each individual efforts that not all are able to fulfill, at least not without
help: the Republic, therefore, had to call on great men to serve as examples.
This idea had already inspired, in 1790, the creation of the Panthéon; but,
aware that there was but a small step from admiration to idolatry, the
revolutionaries only paid homage to the dead. And yet, the imagined society,
so perfectly egalitarian, remained in limbo.
The French Revolution – and this is true for any revolution – maintained a
conflicting, to be sure, but still very tight relationship with heroism. If the
great man is, by definition, the one who defies an ostensible fatality, the one
who dares to go where common mortals do not dare to go, if, therefore, heroism
is inherently a transgression, then, what is there more heroic than a
revolution? For a revolution whose aims are, ultimately, overthrowing the
existing order in favor of another.
In the case of the Revolution of 1789, the cult of heroism played the part of a
new religion. Alexis de Tocqueville will say that, at that time, heroism had
replaced Christianity and had – I quote – torn the French from their “individual
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selfishness”; it – heroism – pushed them to “devotion,” pushed them to
sacrifice, it made them insensitive to common affections, to family ties, to their
day to day interests; and finally, Tocqueville says, this new religion allowed
society to survive et to avoid complete destruction.
Finally, heroism cannot be separated from the revolutionary figure. Indeed, the
revolutionary is always confident beyond doubt that the revolution is carved
onto historical necessity; but the events teach him that in order to succeed, the
Revolution must overcome numerous obstacles. Consequently, the
revolutionary is persuaded that this revolution written into necessity, this
revolution whose final success is absolutely certain, this revolution requires at
the same time his intervention and maybe even his sacrifice. Which is why he
sees himself not as the passive instrument of necessity but rather as a hero
who - because he is ready to sacrifice everything to the cause, including his
own life and that of others - rises above most other men, above the desires,
sorrows, and rules that governed the existence of the others.
And so, the French Revolution generates heroes constantly, from Marat to
Robespierre. They represent two apparently contradictory issues:
1. They are the symbol of an anonymous collectivity which exercises a
faceless power over itself and
2. They are at the same time exemplary types who have already walked
from start to finish the entire road on which their comrades have barely
ventured the first step.
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They embody the sovereign people in his anonymity even as they embody a
people who does not yet exist.
And so, these great figures –great by their exceptionality – recreate between
themselves and the mass of their admirers the kind of relationship, remote and
unequal, associated with the hero of the classical age that the Revolution
sought to abolish.
Which is why the Revolution first honors its great men and then destroys what
it had adored, reproaching itself for indulging in “individual idolatry”: the
Revolution sends Mirabeau and Marat to the Pantheon only to drag their
corpses through the mud soon afterwards.
Everything changes after the 9th of Thermidor, after the fall of Robespierre, and
the end of the Terror. The denunciation of the crimes of that period invalidates
in one fell swoop the heroic conception of politics. These ‘blood-suckers’ who
deny their crimes to save their heads, these despots, ignorant and inebriated –
as shown in “Inside of an revolutionary committee” a very famous print during
the Thermidorian period – these is then who they are, stripped of their
costumes and of their masks, these fervently celebrated heroes!
It is at this juncture that the heroic values, previously discarded in the political
sphere, find a new part to play on a stage always suitable for heroes and heroic
gestures: the war; and, in 1796 and 1797, in Italy, Bonaparte restores and
rejuvenates a role neglected since Robespierre’s fall: the hero who represented
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the avant-garde of the Revolution is followed by the figure of the ‘savior’
awaited by an entire nation.
Why a general?
1. Not only is France embroiled in a crisis of such complexity and depth
that no exit is in sight, but also the idea of monarchy is still so much
ingrained in so many minds that - along with the hardships of the times
and with the Republic looking more and more like an accident – scores of
Frenchmen see no other solution but the return to a form of absolute
power: and generals are those who most naturally embody this type of
power.
2. Why Bonaparte instead of another general – and there was no shortage of
generals in France?
Was he not, a priori, the one least destined to personify the greatest
number? He was born in Corsica, the year the island had been attached
to the kingdom; he was speaking French badly, mixing French and
Italian words, and he himself felt like a stranger in France (he had, in his
youth, fought for Corsica’s independence).
True, the exploits of the army of Italy had counted for much in this decision.
But Bonaparte derived his force not only from his victories, from the ability to
dominate all those who approached him, from his undeniable talent to produce
his own advertising; his force came also from his capacity to reconcile in his
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own person, or rather in the image he was giving of his own person, the
contradictory aspirations of the public opinion of the moment:
On the one hand, the French were tired of Revolution; they wanted to see it
come to an end. On the other hand, they refused to sacrifice the material and
symbolical gains of the Revolution. Equation a priori without solution, but one
that Bonaparte alone had the power to solve, thanks to the simultaneously
revolutionary and post-revolutionary aspects of his character.
1. Revolutionary figure: he was such especially by his youth, seeing that the
Revolution had aged badly, and very fast. The Revolution had loved
youth with a passion: was it not supposed to mark a new beginning in
History and to personify the youth of an everlasting world? At the time
the Revolution reaches its third age, with its worn-out actors and its
thwarted ideals, the myth of its eternal youth is reincarnated in the
army, first of all in the Army of Italy whose soldiers were so young that –
in the words of Stendhal – their 27 years old general (that is, Bonaparte)
was rumored to be the oldest man in the entire army. Before being a
masterpiece of strategy, the campaign of 1796 was a hymn to youth.
2. Bonaparte symbolizes the Revolution’s strength of will: in Italy, he
creates States, writes constitutions and laws; but he embodies equally
the promise of equality: the spirit of the Revolution, meaning, the feeling
of being able to accomplish the impossible. This spirit is revived so
much more in the military sphere since these 25 year old generals are for
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the most part – it is the case with Bonaparte – risen from the ranks.
Their stunning ascent confirms the ideals of the Revolution – the
principle of equality – in ways that were not found in civilian life, where
the advantages of fortune have rapidly replaced those of birth.
The rise of these young officers also explains why the army had become the
last refuge, the last bastion, of the Revolution. How could that be different,
in an institution where personal ambitions have been so long kept in check
by aristocratic rules of advancement? Logically, the Army is apprehensive
of a monarchical restoration which would take away grades earned on the
battlefield and give precedence – again - to aristocratic privileges. Nothing
can make the Army backtrack: this will be obvious again, in 1814 and in
1815, when the Bourbons return. The Revolution hates the devotees of the
Old Regime who have emigrated, but the Army, on its side, hates them
because they are the enemies to be encountered on the battlefield.
Revolutionary out of interests, the Army is also revolutionary out of passion,
and all the more whole-heartedly so that, unlike the political personnel,
shackled to its past, 1793 does not make soldiers think of the Terror, but of
a gigantic effort, strewn with battles and victories against foreign invaders.
The Army can in this way profess allegiance to the entire Revolution, its
most tragic moments included. Finally, the Army embodies the Revolution
delivered from the Terror, the Revolution without the Terror.
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It is in this sense that the character Bonaparte, representative of the the
Revolution in so many ways, is a post-revolutionary character at the same
time: he embodies the Revolution, but not the civil war within.
He had obtained on the battlefield a legitimacy that he will soon brandish
against the legitimacy of the government (the Brumaire coup). It is true that
at Toulon, maybe – in 1793 royalists from Toulon had surrendered the portcity to the English; Bonaparte had contributed to recapturing the city – and
it is true that during the 13 Vendémiaire for sure – when he led the
repression against royalists insurgents in Paris - he had taken part in
episodes of civil war; but, in the end, the epic Italian campaign erased all
that came before.
He, Bonaparte, is the son of a nation at war, not the product of political
infighting. He receives the power to stand for values unstained by either
partisan interests or the memory of recent fractures. Two more years and
he will derive from this the power to transcend French disagreements, to be
at once on the left and on the right of any issue, to unite the pre-1789
France with the post 1789 France.
Only a military man could accomplish such a feat.
Indeed, the armies that export the ideas of the French Revolution and
threaten the old European monarchies mend at the same time, through
their marches across Europe, the continuity of history; they bridge the gap
between before and after 1789. In Italy and in Germany, the republican
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Armies march on the roads treaded by the soldiers of the Old Regime. The
theater of military operations is the same; the fields of battle are the same
as during the Old Regime wars. On the battlefield, the republican soldier
rediscovers the values that, in all time-periods, make the greatness of the
military profession: courage, honor, commitment, loyalty.
In this way, by reconnecting with values specific to the old aristocratic
society, the Revolution reconnects with the Old Regime. But at the same
time, this does not mean – just the contrary – that the Old Regime has
caught up with the Revolution by means of warfare.
Just the contrary, the war deprives the Old Regime of the past and of the
tradition which constituted its main claims to legitimacy. The war
accomplished the complete demise of the Old Regime society by
incorporating its values, especially the military ones, into the heritage of the
Revolution. In a certain way, it is the task of warriors to succeed where the
men of 1789 have failed: the war allows them to overtake the values of the
aristocracy, and through them equality is achieved from above while the
political order had attempted to achieve equality from below by means of
destroying all the old values. The army fulfills the dream of an entire
generation, a dream which did not necessary aimed at eradicating all
aristocratic culture, but at giving a democratic reorientation to aristocratic
culture by replacing birth titles with merit.
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Bonaparte’s politics of ‘fusion’ between the elites of the Old and the New
regimes, a landmark of the Consulate, will only be the political extension of
what he had discovered during the Italian campaigns, that is: the marriage
between democracy and aristocracy.
This synthesis, this fusion will later on, throughout the imperial saga,
completely reshape the nineteenth century European society. It will associate –
not without frictions and tensions – the character of the bourgeois to the
character of the military; it will join the utilitarian ethics of interest to the
ethics of honor, brotherhood in arms, and sacrifice for the fatherland; it will
bring together the liberty of the Ancients and the freedom of the Moderns. The
Bonaparte persona, rather than representing, as Nietzsche thought, a final,
strange and ephemeral resurrection of the old order of things, embodies this
association of opposites, characteristic for the first century of the history of the
democratic world. Without a doubt, the nineteenth century will interpret
Napoleon’s fall as proof of the final defeat of the ancient hero clashing with the
modern bourgeois, but what else will the colonial epic story be later on if not
another display - on the world’s stage - of inextricably ancient and modern
passions, at once aristocratic and bourgeois, previously expressed in the wars
of the Revolution and of the Empire.
This association between the bourgeois and the hero engenders the cult
created around Bonaparte, at the same time invincible conqueror and modest
reader of great poets. His marriage with Joséphine – itself an act
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simultaneously bohemian, aristocratic, and bourgeois – illustrates the melting
or rather the intermingling between traditions a priori antagonistic, which will
infuse the entire century. Bonaparte is not modern only by his bourgeois
features, because he loves his wife, shares her bed, and does not hesitate to
make domestic scenes that would have been unthinkable for an Old Regime
aristocrat; he is also modern by the heroic side of his persona. What is
apparently most ancient, almost antique, is maybe what makes him the most
modern. Napoleon is the figure of the modern individual. The side of him that
speaks to modern imaginations is his conviction – so much like our conviction
– that, as he said once, “his destiny will not resist to his will.”
In the eyes of his contemporaries, Bonaparte is the man who, without
ancestors and without a name, builds himself up by the force of his will, of his
energy, of his work and of his talent; the man, so to speak, born of himself,
who transforms his life into destiny et elevates himself up to new heights by
pushing aside all accepted limitations.
There is something existential in the life of this man. As he saw perfect
happiness only in the ‘most complete development of his faculties’ he strove to
verify this maxim every day by never allowing a single hour to go to waste. He
was persuaded that life had meaning only of lived on an ever larger and
grander scale. In glory, like in the love inspired by Joséphine, he was seeking
this very energy where his life found meaning.
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This is the secret for the fascination still wielded by the persona of Napoleon.
He is the one who does and, to quote Thomas Carlyle’s definition of the hero,
he is the one ‘who can do more and better’ an embodiment of values such as
exceptional energy and worship of larger than life individuals, values that will
be later celebrated by romanticism. Which explains Goethe’s exclamation –
after having the opportunity of meeting with Napoleon: “This is how Napoleon
was a formidable character! Always enlightened, always clear-minded and
decisive, and endowed at any time with the energy of carrying out, right away,
everything he had identified as advantageous and necessary. His life was the
life of a demi-god.”
This does not mean, however, that his contemporaries dreamed of doing things
like Bonaparte was doing, since he was inimitable, unmatched, out of reach.
“His destiny” Goethe added, “was of a brilliance such as the world has never
seen before him, and will maybe never see after him. Yes, yes: he was one
fellow with whom we obviously cannot compete in equal terms.”
The hero offers himself to admiration, but not to imitation. This means, on the
contrary, that his contemporaries dreamed of being like him, animated by the
same vital energy which allowed him, since the beginning of his domination, to
transform the world around him and turned it into the fabric and the
background of his destiny. He was exemplary and inimitable at the same time.
But were not the mythological heroes themselves - part-men, part-gods - close
and so exceedingly out of reach at the same time?
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